


Blue Velvet

by sportamayor



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe- Musicians, Bars and Pubs, Careless whisper, M/M, Prohibition, Speakeasies, This Is 100 Percent Serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9942755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sportamayor/pseuds/sportamayor
Summary: There he was, in a suit of muted gold, playing the saxophone as smooth as he was playing Sportacus's heart. Milford Meanswell. Sportacus's pulse sped, and he smoothed his velvet vest nervously.And then, Milford caught his eye, and and it was if the rest of the world melted away.





	1. Careless Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is bad for me and I should be ashamed but I'm not
> 
> I haven't read this since I wrote it at about four? ish AM a few days ago so we suffer and we suffer together

Through the haze of cigarette smoke, Sportacus made his way back to his table, another tumbler of whiskey, neat, in his hand. It was draped with a dark red cloth, and tucked to the side of the room where he could take in his surroundings casually as he drank. He didn't come to these kinds of places often, but tonight he had felt that restless stirring in his bones that made him feel lonely and heartsick, and he had headed to the speakeasy in hopes of easing the feeling a bit.

Dressed in a blue velvet suit, complete with waistcoat, pocket watch, and smart shoes, Sportacus hoped he looked better than he felt. Shakily, he took a sip of his drink, the smoky haze and smooth jazz music making him feel lightheaded. Or maybe it was the drinks. He didn't often get the chance to indulge, as Prohibition made it more trouble than it was worth to have a glass of wine or something like that. You really had to seek it out. So, his tolerance low, the drinks were affecting him more then they used to in his younger days.

His younger days.....ridiculous. Sportacus wasn't that old. But loneliness tended to add years to the soul, and he could recall how long it had been since the last time someone had warmed his bed.

Sportacus leaned his head against his chair and closed his eyes, drinking in the feeling of the luscious jazz music that the band was playing from across the room. A gentle saxophone solo drifted over him, and he could feel his muscles relax and his mind go pleasantly quiet as the song continued. It was such an incredible feeling, and somehow, as improbable as it may have seemed, the music helped to heal the loneliness so often present in his heart.

When it ended, Sportacus was left with an indescribably bittersweet mixture of euphoria from the music and loss at its completion. The band seemed to be switching out, and he was dismayed by the sheer number of musicians getting up onto the raised platform across the room. He tilted his head back and downed the rest of his drink, grateful he had not ordered it on the rocks, and stood up, somewhat unsteadily, as the new band began to play a song. This time, it was a more upbeat swing style of music, and Sportacus found it clashed with the dreamy mood he'd started to experience. Maybe he'd take a walk, or head home to have a nice, long, hot bath.

Heading for the doorway, Sportacus wove his way through the crowd, women in dresses and headpieces laughing and talking with men in sharp suits, holding martinis and wine glasses openly and proudly, as if it was perfectly legal. But, of course, it wasn't, and Sportacus was reminded grimly of that fact when he stepped out of the clandestine speakeasy into the deserted alley where it was located. The neighborhood was run down and half abandoned, which was perfect for the kind of business that it was, but rather unpleasant for the clientele when they were making their way to and from the club.

Sportacus leaned against the wall, absentmindedly running his foot along the bricks that paved the alley. It was hard for him to stand completely still, even when he was pleasantly inebriated like he was tonight.

"Oh, excuse me," said a voice, opening the door of the club. Apparently Sportacus had been standing closer to the door than he had thought. He stood up straight, taking a few steps away so that he wasn't in the other man's path anymore.

"Sorry about that," he said, turning to the source of the voice.

The man was suave and chic, a real silver fox, dressed in a mustard colored suit with a vest the color of a café au lait. Sportacus's gaze raked slowly up, until he locked eyes with him. The eye contact lasted a few heartbeats too long, until the other man dropped his saxophone case. It fell to the dirty, wet brick with an almighty clatter, and the man dove for it futilely.

"Oh, my," he said, crouching down to inspect the damage. Sportacus rushed over, hating to see someone in trouble. "I'm ever so clumsy," the stranger was mumbling to himself.

"Do you need help?" Sportacus asked.

"I think I've got it. Thank you, though."

Both men straightened up, now standing close to each other. Sportacus offered a hand, and the stranger hastily fumbled the saxophone case into his left hand in order to return the gesture.

"I'm Sportacus," he said, "Sportacus Íþróttaálfurinnsson."

"Oh my, that's quite the surname," said the stranger. "I'm Milford Meanswell."

"Enchanté," Sportacus said, a little bit shocked at himself. He could feel himself turning on the charm without really intending to. "I mean, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Meanswell."

"Oh, please, do call me Milford," said the stranger."

"Milford it is, then" Sportacus said, wincing inwardly at how flirtatious his voice sounded. Usually, he was able to conceal his attraction to men, but the drinks and the night and the exhilaration of the music had left him unusually bold. He swallowed nervously.

But Milford seemed to be receptive to his tone, without the usual air of disgust that accompanied such an understanding. Au contraire, in fact. It seemed that he was....reciprocative.

"And may I call you....Sportacus?" Milford asked, still a little to close to Sportacus for one who had just met him. Sportacus could feel the heat of a blush rising slowly across his face.

"I'd love it," he said, smiling softly. He looked away, suddenly nervous, eyes catching the battered black saxophone case instead. "Say, that wasn't you who just finished playing, was it?"

"Yes, that was me," Milford said. "Did you enjoy the music?"

"Enjoy it? It was the dreamiest thing I've heard in a very long time." Sportacus's voice was achingly sincere. "It reminded me of.....that feeling you get when you head home after a long journey, and step through the front door, and you get to sleep in your own bed for the first time in far too long. It was comfortable and gorgeous and perfect and-" Sportacus cut himself off. "Sorry, I've said too much. Only, it truly was something remarkable to hear. Simply exquisite." Oh, god, he was rambling.

"No, don't apologize," said Milford, placing his free hand tenderly on Sportacus's arm, resting softly on the blue velvet of his suit. "I'm very glad I could make you feel so at home."

A silence stretched between them, lush and thick and full of promise. But the spell was broken as the door to the speakeasy crashed open noisily, banging hard against the wall as a man and woman burst out, staggering into the alley, embracing drunkenly.

"Whoah, daddy-o," said the woman as she swayed dangerously, giggling. The man steadied her.

"Careful, doll," he crooned, laughing softly. The couple made their way down the alley before turning a corner and disappearing into the chill of the foggy night.

Milford suddenly cleared his throat, removing his hand from Sportacus's arm. Sportacus realized that it had been there the whole time and felt himself reddening madly once more.

"So, maybe I'll see you here again?" Milford asked, voice cautiously optimistic.

"God, I hope so," Sportacus said, smiling. "See you around," he called as Milford began to retreat down the alley in the same direction as the vanishing lovers.

"God, I hope so," he said again, voice a quiet whisper.

He glanced back at the doorway, which still hung ajar, music and smoke spilling into the night air.

It seemed he would be coming around a lot more frequently.

 


	2. A Careful Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sportacus returns to the speakeasy in hopes of catching the eye of a certain good lookin' saxophone player.

Sportacus wasn't able to return to the speakeasy for a whole week. It was only in operation for three nights a week, and he was too exhausted from his work as a fireman to head out on the town at night. He had to work strange hours sometimes, always ready to go when there was someone in trouble.

But tonight he was off duty and well rested, and he tried to tamper down his excitement as he dolled himself up for the night. Freshly clean, he thumbed through his best suits for the occasion, but stopped when he reached the blue velvet one.

Sportacus pushed away the thought that arose in his mind. So what if he wanted that handsome stranger from last week to recognize him more easily....

Sighing, Sportacus pulled out the vest of the suit and held it at arms' length, regarding it as he considered his options. He wanted Milford Meanswell to recognize him, but he didn't want to come across as desperate. Which, of course, made little sense, but Sportacus couldn't help but overthink when he found himself in situations like this. He hadn't felt the need to dress to impress in such a long time that he felt a little strange. Frustrated, he tossed the vest haphazardly on the bed. He sank down on the edge of the mattress, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his palms.

After a few moments of self-pity, Sportacus straightened up and caught a glimpse of himself in the full body mirror in the corner of the room.

You have nothing to worry about, he told himself. You're a very handsome chap.

Sportacus noticed in the reflection his navy overcoat hung on a peg by the bedroom door. A-ha. He could wear the vest over a finely tailored white shirt but skip the sport coat, and wear the coat instead. That way, he would be recognizable, but not.....desperate? Broke? Eccentric? Whatever you called a fellow who wore the same suit every time he went out. Sportacus changed his outfit and stood in front of the mirror, smithing his hands down the velvet. Very suave, if he did say so himself. He added all of the finishing touches: pocket watch, tie pin, cuff links. Then, he grabbed his overcoat and went back over to the mirror, putting on a series of poses with the coat. He slung it over one shoulder and hooked it casually with one finger. He practiced taking it off alluringly, sliding it off his shoulders and onto an imaginary chair. He even got so caught up in the last one that he forgot the chair wasn't real, and set the coat slipping to the floor.

"Oops," he said, picking up the coat and dusting it off. Now he felt foolish. "Oh! I'd better get going!" Sportacus said, checking his pocket watch. He slid on the coat without any further ado and headed out into the night.

There was a spring in his step and it was all he could do to not flip down the street. His stomach felt fluttery. The night was young, and he felt a high from the potential in the air.

When he finally arrived at that crucial alley, he rounded the corner to find a handful of gangsters loitering by the door, wearing grey three piece suits and fedoras ranging from charcoal to ash.

"Hey, you there! Beat it!" One of the gangsters shouted, pointing down the alley at Sportacus. "This is our joint, and we got enough fellas in there already. Now, if you were a dame.... And too many men means they drink all our good stuff, leaving us with nothing but moonshine. And then too many men means too many fights, which means too many shouts, and that means that the fuzz gets called."

"Aw, pipe down, Charley," said another one of the gangsters. "We could use the clams. And besides, it's only one guy here. We got more than enough bootleg to go around."

"I'm just here to listen to some jazz music," Sportacus said, trying his best to sound friendly. He was aware that between his muscular build and his accent, he could sometimes come across as intimidating or even threatening to other men.

"Jack's right, Charley," said a third gangster, a young man. "Let him through. Then, to Sportacus, with a meaningful look on his face, "Just make sure you buy yourself a drink, and another for some lucky bird."

Sportacus blinked. Being attracted to men meant that he had become quite adept at picking up on subtext in other men's words. He looked at the baby-faced gangster, and to his utmost surprise, the stranger winked at him, making sure that none of his cronies saw. Unsettled, he gave them a wide berth on his way to the door.

Inside the speakeasy, the sounds of jazz music washed over him immediately, calming him down and leaving him instantly euphoric. He closed his eyes, satisfied, as the door shut behind him. He inhaled a slow, deep breath, the haze of cigarette smoke mingling with the electrified atmosphere of the room to create a heady feeling in his chest.

After a few moments of taking in the beautiful sounds, he walked closed to the stage, weaving between dancing girls in flapper dresses and men in various stages of inebriation, trying to get a better look at the musicians.

There he was, in a suit of muted gold, playing the saxophone as smooth as he was playing Sportacus's heart. Milford Meanswell. Sportacus's pulse sped, and he smoothed his velvet vest nervously.

And then, Milford caught his eye, and and it was if the rest of the world melted away. He stood there, transfixed, until the song had ended and the musicians were making their way offstage. The spell broken, he cleared his throat and hurried off to the bar, suddenly shy. He ordered a drink, just some bootleg moonshine, and went over to the side of the room closest to the stage.

"Is this seat taken?"

Sportacus spun around.

"Oh- Milford! Hello," he said, his heart thumping loudly.

"Mind if I set down my saxophone case for a moment? I'm gonna go get a drink."

"Oh! Okay!" Sportacus tried not to sound too enthusiastic. He watched Milford head across the room and talk to the bartender. When Milford got his drink, he spun back around quickly, blushing, hoping that Milford hadn't seen him gazing fondly.

"What is that?" Sportacus asked. His eyes were full of wonder at the fact that the mayor had a big red mug instead of a glass of liquor.

"Oh! Oh my, it's- well, it's my favorite drink," Milford said. It was his turn to blush. "It's hot cocoa- but with two shots of marshmallow vodka!"

"They have that at a speakeasy?" Sportacus asked, puzzled.

"Oh yes! It's wonderful!"

"So, Milford, come here often?" Sportacus said and then immediate cringed. Of course he did.

"Yes, I love to play the saxophone. I play three nights a week."

"So what do you do during the day?"

"Oh! I'm the mayor of this whole city!"

"You are??" Sportacus leapt to his feet, shocked. He couldn't be flirting with the mayor in a speakeasy. Think of the scandal.

"Sportacus, don't worry," Milford said soothingly. "I know what's happening and it's okay."

"You do?? It is??" Sportacus's mind was spinning.

"It's not hard to tell."

"Oh goodness," Sportacus said. Was he really that transparent? He had to be more careful.

"But Sportacus.... It's okay. I mean, I have those feelings too."

Sportacus was speechless.

"Um....let me go get another drink...." He finally muttered, despite the fact that his glass was still half full.

He hurried to the bar and downed the rest of the moonshine, making a terrible throaty noise at the burn in his throat. Gasping for air, he slammed his forearms on the bar, the glass clinking loudly. It was a miracle that it didn't break.

"Easy there, sport," said the bartender.

"You know my name?" The bartender was a tall man with a prominent chin, dressed in purple and maroon pinstripes, with a gold pocket watch chain.

"What? I was just calling you sport."

"Oh."

"Trouble with the dames?"

"In a sense," Sportacus said. "I just don't know what to do."

"Well, here's my number one advice for any situation: don't be lazy."

"Th-thank you?" Sportacus blinked.

"On the house," said the bartender, filling his glass with moonshine. "Take another mug for your date, too. I know his favorite." The bartender, Robbie, winked at him.

Sportacus went back to his seat.

"You bought me a drink? Oh my! Thank you dear boy."

"Listen, if we're going to....." Sportacus raised his eyes meaningfully- "you can't keep calling me dear boy."

Milford leaned in seductively after taking a sip from his second vodka hot cocoa.

"How about.....old sport?" He murmured softly.

"Oh, Mayor Milford," Sportacus breathed. "That sounds dreamy."

Their lips were about to touch when someone jeered behind them. They broke apart.

"Maybe we'd better get out of here," Sportacus suggested. He took another unpleasant gulp of his moonshine.

"Sounds good," the mayor said.

"I know somewhere we can go," Sportacus said. He was fighting off the urge to grab the mayor's hand. "Somewhere you won't be recognized."

"Take me there," Milford said, brown eyes wide in the dim of the club.

"Wait! One more for the road," Sportacus said, whisking Milford over to the bar. "I'll have another- whatever this is, and he'll have a vodka and cocoa."

"Maybe you oughta slow down, Mr. Mayor, that's your third cup of cocoa," said a man in yellow.

"Oh my," said the mayor.

"Come on!" Sportacus said once they had their drinks, grabbing Milford's cloth-like hand.

They raced out into the night, drunk on illegal alcohol, each other's eyes, and the possibility of the evening stretching out in front of them like a long open road in a brand new Ford automobile.

"Wait! My saxophone," Milford yelled and ducked back inside. In his haste and his rising attraction to Sportacus, he'd left it on his seat.

Sportacus gazed after him, a small, private smile on his face. Luckily, the alley was empty of those gangsters from earlier. When the mayor emerged, they gulped down the last of their drinks and left the cups behind in the alley. They gripped hands again and ran into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

"Well....we're here," Sportacus said. They were standing on the roof of the firehouse, with an incredible view of the city stretching for miles.

"It's gorgeous, old sport," Milford said. The city lights were dazzling and bright, and they reflected in his eyes.

"I come up here when I want to think," said Sportacus. "I've- I've never brought anyone here before. But with you.... It just feels so right."

"Oh Sportacus," sighed the mayor.

"May I- may I kiss you?"

"Oh, yes," the mayor breathed. Sportacus closed the distance between them, closing his eyes as he leaned down for a kiss. It was a luminous kiss, like none other he'd ever had in his life. The stars seemed to sing for them as the world stopped in place and their heartbeats raced. Milford sighed as they parted, needing air.

"I hope you don't mind," Milford said. "I wrote a song for you."

"A song? I'd love to hear it," Sportacus said. He walked over to the edge of the roof and sat down, legs dangling off the side. The mayor pulled out his saxophone and sat next to him.

"It's called.....Careless Whisper," said Milford.

A sensual saxophone melody cloaked the streets like a blanket of fog as Sportacus lost himself in the eyes of his new lover.

He would finally, finally be happy in the arms of a man.

Even if that man was the mayor.


End file.
